


How Near You Stand To Me

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Sweethearts, M/M, Mention of internalized transphobia, Mostly Fluff, School Reunion, Teen Angst, Trans Martin Blackwood, mention of transphobia, seriously this is so self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: His arm bumps against someone else’s as they both reach for the onion pakoras. Martin turns to apologize, and...really? After watching and hoping all evening,thisis how he meets Jon: colliding over the chafing dishes with a napkin full of mini sausage rolls clutched in one hand?*Martin didn't have to come to his school reunion.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mention of past Jon/Georgie - Relationship
Comments: 64
Kudos: 333





	How Near You Stand To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [interropunct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interropunct/gifts).



> After ONE MILLION YEARS I am working through some delightful AU prompts I got on tumblr. This was a request from interropunct for a Jmart High School Reunion AU. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Title by The Smiths, which is how you know it's going to be real teenage pining hours. 
> 
> Thanks to the wonderful fatal_drum for betaing, you're the best!

_“Hand in glove_  
 _We can go wherever we please_  
 _And everything depends upon_  
 _How near you stand to me”_  
The Smiths — Hand In Glove 

_You don’t have to go,_ Martin tells himself. 

His reflection in the bathroom mirror looks pale, washed out, and he can’t tell if it’s from the harsh fluorescent lights or the anxiety curdling in his stomach. He brushes some imagined wrinkles out of the front of his shirt. 

He _doesn’t_ have to go. He could give it a miss, pick up some takeaway and spend the night in his hotel room watching rubbish on telly. Get the train back to London tomorrow, nobody the wiser. Probably no one would even notice if he didn’t turn up. 

“Same as when I left, then,” he mutters, though he knows that’s not fair. The reunion group made the effort to find him on Facebook, after all, even with his name change. And it’s not as if he tried to stay in touch with any of his classmates after he dropped out. He was too embarrassed about working crappy jobs just to make ends meet; too resentful that he had to, while they kept living their normal teenage lives.

It’s not their fault, anymore than it’s his mum’s fault for getting sick. Knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better, though. 

He’s not even sure why he decided to come in the first place. It’s a silly idea, Woodbridge High School Reunion, Class of 2005. Like something from an American film. Not even something the school organized, just a group of those students who had reason to be nostalgic about their schooldays. It’s not as if Martin particularly wants to see any of his old classmates —at least, not any of them who might actually be there. 

He can admit he’s nervous. Not because he’s afraid people might whisper or stare; that’s unpleasant, but he can deal with it. But it’s taken Martin a long time to be comfortable in his skin—still a work in progress, really—and the thought of being forcibly dragged back to the bad old days, when he was so scared and confused about who he was, is an anxious one. 

And that’s why he has to go, in the end. To remind himself that those days are behind him. His life might not be much to boast about, but it’s _his,_ and he’s happy with it. Happy with himself. 

_Besides, you never know,_ his treacherous brain adds, _he might turn up._ Martin pushes the thought away.

“It’ll be fine,” he tells his reflection, smoothing down his shirt once more. 

*

The reunion is in the banquet hall of a hotel that’s much nicer than the one where Martin’s staying. There’s a woman sitting by the door with a table of adhesive name tags; her eyes widen a bit when Martin introduces himself, but she covers the reaction quickly with a broad smile and only stumbles a little over his name as she greets him. Her name sticker reads ‘Caroline Locke’. Martin thinks she used to be in his History class for GCSE. 

The name tag she hands him reads ‘Martin Blackwood’, and he sticks it firmly to the front of his shirt. He tries to surreptitiously examine the rows of stickers on the table as he does, but someone else comes up behind him and he has to move on before he can get a good look.

“Have fun!” Caroline tells him brightly. 

“Thanks,” says Martin. “Umm, you too.”

The banquet hall is loud with music and colored lights. There’s a buffet table along one wall, a bar in the back—the center of activity—and people mingling around tables or on the dance floor. Martin gets himself a drink and walks around, stops to say hi to the name tags he recognizes, familiar faces made strange by the intervening years. He gets a few looks of bemusement that slowly blossom into realization as people take in his name tag, a couple of awkward silences from people who’ve clearly, until now, only been _theoretically_ aware of trans people, but all in all it’s fine. Really. 

He keeps one eye out while he asks about people’s jobs and families, answers questions about where he’s living now _(yeah, London’s expensive, but he likes it),_ what he’s doing _(office job, bit boring really),_ if he’s married _(enjoying the single life for now, haha)._ It’s stupid, he knows. Jon was only at Woodbridge for a year and half—if even that. He might not have even sat his A levels there for all Martin knows, and it’s not as if he liked the place much. There’s no reason to think he’d turn up for a ten year reunion. 

And there’s no real reason to think seeing him would mean anything even if he _did_ show up. Martin’s just built it up in his head, because that’s how he is. Because Jon was one of the few good things in his life back then. If he turned up, they’d probably just exchange a few pleasantries; Jon would mention his partner and kids, ask how Martin’s doing in London, and that would be the end of it. 

Still, it would be nice to know that Jon’s okay. That he’s happy. 

*

After an hour and a half Martin’s ready to go. He’s shown his face and said his hellos, and there’s no real reason for him to stick around. His old classmates, they’re not _bad_ people; a lot of them seem very nice people. But they’re not his friends, never were, through all those lonely years at school. He was always a piece that never quite fit in the puzzle of their lives. 

Before he leaves, he takes a trip to the buffet table, because he might as well get some snacks out of the night. People are hovering around it the way people do around free food, and Martin squeezes through carefully and starts filling a napkin with tidbits. 

His arm bumps against someone else’s as they both reach for the onion pakoras. Martin turns to apologize, and...really? After watching and hoping all evening, _this_ is how he meets Jon: colliding over the chafing dishes with a napkin full of mini sausage rolls clutched in one hand? Jon starts to apologize, and then his eyes land on Martin’s face and go startlingly wide. 

“Oh... _you...”_ His gaze flickers down to Martin’s name tag, and when he looks up again a soft smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Martin,” he says warmly, and it’s been ten years but Martin’s heartbeat picks up speed at the sound of his voice.

“Jon,” he says. “Hi! I, uh, I wasn’t sure if you’d come. I didn’t see you on the Facebook page?”

“Ahh, I don’t have Facebook. One of the organizers of this whole thing is married to my cousin—you remember Jocasta Ejuke? Well, it’s Khan now, but you know. Anyway I found out through her.”

“Right,” says Martin helplessly. “Well it’s, uh—I mean, I was hoping I’d see you.”

“Oh!” Jon looks startled, but pleased. “I—I was hoping too, actually. It’s good to see you, Martin. You look…really good.” 

“Th-thanks, you too.” Martin is sure he’s blushing now, his cheeks feel hot and he can only hope the garish lighting is hiding the worst of it. Jon shifts slightly as someone pushes past him to get to the buffet table, and nods in the direction of a less crowded area. 

“Should we get out of the way?” 

“Let’s, before we get trampled in the rush for the scotch eggs,” Martin agrees, and Jon laughs. The sound catches somewhere in Martin’s chest, settles warm and heavy there. 

*

They find a table in the corner, away from everyone, and Martin finds himself thinking of the first day they met. He’d seen Jon sitting alone in the canteen, the new kid who had immediately put everyone off with his prickly demeanor. And, well, Martin usually sat on his own too, so he had the thought that maybe they could at least sit alone together. Jon gave him a sharp look when he sat down, a defense that scarcely concealed the loneliness and fear behind it. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Martin said. “I won’t bother you.”

“It’s fine,” Jon muttered, and went back to his book; ‘Wuthering Heights’, which they were reading for English Lit and which Martin loathed with a passion. 

“What do you think of it?” he asked, breaking his promise immediately. Jon looked up at him, seeming startled, and then made a face.

“Overblown nonsense,” he stated solemnly, and Martin couldn’t help laughing. 

“More like Blathering Heights,” he agreed, and Jon gave a surprised snort of amusement. After that, they sat together every day. 

Now they’re sitting at this banquet hall table with its cheap white tablecloth and, _god,_ it’s easy. It shouldn’t be this easy to talk to someone Martin hasn’t seen in a decade, knew for less than a year before that, but somehow it is. Jon is still clever and quick, but less brittle than he used to be; still sharp at the edges but no longer with the jagged anguish of a broken bone. 

It makes sense; when Martin knew him he’d been a vagrant since the age of four, shipped from relative to distant relative for a year or two or three at a time. Landed once again in a new school, an outsider with a posh southern accent who had given up on fitting in before he even started. He had no reason to think that anything might be permanent, no reason to open himself to being hurt. Now, though, Jon’s found his own place in the world, no longer a child reliant on the whims of adults for whom his existence was a mild inconvenience. And that place, coincidentally:

“London? Really?” 

Martin shouldn’t be so surprised, eight million people live in London. But despite knowing it’s silly, he can’t help feeling like it means something. Serendipity, maybe. 

“At King’s College,” Jon says wryly. “I ended up the sort of stuffy academic I swore _blind_ I’d never be at uni—which Georgie takes great delight in reminding me.” 

“Is Georgie your…” _Girlfriend? Partner? Spouse?_ Martin’s not quite sure how to ask without sounding jealous in a way that he’s by no means entitled to. Fortunately, Jon saves him from having to finish the question. 

“No, no, just a friend. We, ah, we tried it for a while at uni, but it turns out we’re better as friends.” He snorts a self-deprecating laugh. “A _lot_ better. Bit of a disaster, if I’m honest.” 

“Right,” says Martin. “Good.” He winces; where did _that_ come from. Still, Jon is giving him that soft sort of smile, and then he says:

“What about you? Anyone special?”

“Oh,” says Martin. “No, nothing like that. Not at the moment, anyway.” He tries not to think about why Jon might be asking _(he’s just being polite and interested in your life)_ and fails miserably. 

“I see,” says Jon, and then glances around at the now crowded dance floor. “I’m just going to pop out for a cigarette. I’ll only be five minutes. Or you could keep me company? If you like?” 

Martin doesn’t think he’s imagining the hopeful note in Jon’s voice, and he feels his face go even hotter as he replies:

“I, uh...I could do with some fresh air myself.”

*

Jon has a nose for a fire exit, it seems, and Martin watches as he lights a cigarette, his slim fingers cupping the flame carefully. Away from the colored glare of the party, beneath the pale incandescent exit light, he can have a proper look at Jon for the first time. He looks like he did ten years ago, achingly familiar, and at the same time entirely different. Older, certainly, and a bit more weary, but less fearful too, the defensive hunch gone from his shoulders. 

Martin watches as he takes the first drag, his eyes closing in satisfaction, the blue-gray smoke trickling slowly from his lips. It reminds him of being back at school, hidden behind the bushes near the bike racks, watching Jon’s hands and mouth as he smoked. Martin was more than a bit in love with him in those moments, and his chest aches sweetly with an echo of that feeling. 

Once, in a rush of sweaty courage, Martin had reached for Jon’s free hand with his. Tangled their fingers together and kissed his startled mouth before he could say anything. Jon had tasted of smoke, and he had kissed back with heart-stopping tenderness. It had been clumsy and ridiculous, and barely a few weeks later Martin’s mum got worse and he dropped out of school, and that was the end of it. In the scheme of things, it was almost nothing. But it’s all Martin can think of right now.

“I can’t believe you’re still smoking,” he says, to stop himself blurting out some too-intense confession. Jon sighs. 

“I know,” he laments. “I’ve given up...three times now, I think? Someday it’ll stick.” He gives Martin a sidelong glance, hesitates for a moment, then asks:

“How, ah, how’s your mother these days?” 

“Oh, she—she passed, actually. Last year.” The twinge of grief is an old friend by now, but it still hurts. 

“I am...so sorry, Martin.” 

“It’s okay.” Martin shrugs. “It’s—she was sick for a long time. It was for the best.”

“I worried about you,” says Jon, looking away. “When you left. I didn’t have your phone number, or even your address, and it was so sudden…” 

“Sorry,” Martin says, feeling terribly small. He’s been guilty about this for ten years. Jon was his friend—his only real friend, back then—and Martin left without a word. Because he was embarrassed, and helplessly angry, and scared that Jon wouldn’t want anything to do with him if they weren’t at school together. 

“I can only imagine how it must have been for you,” says Jon, “With your mother being so sick, having to take on all that responsibility. I—I suppose I just wish I could have been there for you.”

“Me too,” says Martin, and stupidly, feels tears in his eyes, his throat tight with the ache of lost opportunities. Jon is looking at him now, the cigarette dangling forgotten from his fingers. 

“I really missed you,” he says, and Martin feels Jon’s free hand brush against his. He curls his fingers quickly around Jon’s, before he can think better of it. His heart thumps hard in his chest. 

“Is this...weird?” he asks, and he can’t help bracing himself. Jon frowns, the little confused scrunch between his brows that Martin remembers so well. 

“In what way?”

“Well, I mean, I was...a bit different when you knew me.” 

“Oh,” says Jon, comprehending, and then: “No— _god,_ no. You’re _you._ And you seem so much happier now. It’s—it’s wonderful.”

“That’s, uh, that’s good, then.” Martin’s given up on feeling embarrassed as his cheeks heat again and Jon’s fingers tighten around his. Instead he laughs, the feeling bubbling up from his chest irresistibly, because it’s ridiculous that he’s been lucky enough to have this evening. 

“Should we go back inside?” Jon asks after a few moments. He doesn’t sound too enthusiastic. Martin glances at the EXIT door, the faint sounds of overly loud pop music vibrating through it. He shrugs. 

“We could. Or we could go and get chips?”

*

They share a portion of curry chips, sitting on the kerb like teenagers, huddled together and laughing. Martin _feels_ like a teenager, and he’s trying to keep his head, to remember that he doesn’t know Jon anymore, not after all these years. That if he’s _going_ to know him again, it’s not going to happen all in one night. 

Still, this feels like something. Like the parts of them that fit together at seventeen still fit together now, like maybe the rest of them might too. Jon’s eyes are bright beneath the streetlights, and Martin can’t stop looking at him. 

“What are you doing next weekend?” Jon asks him, his eyes darting shyly from Martin’s face back down to the box of chips. 

“Ahh, not much?” Martin hears his voice going breathless and squeaky, but really there’s not much to be done about that. He might as well resign himself to being an infatuated idiot in front of Jonathan Sims. 

“Would you...I mean, maybe we could do something? There’s a clockmaking exhibition at the Science Museum that I’ve been meaning to go to.” 

The suggestion is so perfectly Jon, who was always enthralled by the oddest, most esoteric things, and who told Martin about them with such excitement that he found himself captivated too. Martin can’t help the grin that spreads itself across his face any more than he can help his heart skipping in his chest at Jon’s answering smile. 

“That sounds fun!”

“Great!” Jon sounds something between pleased and relieved. “That’s—really great.” 

*

It’s getting late by the time they go their separate ways. Martin’s hotel is walking distance, and Jon insists on walking with him, and then Martin insists on waiting while Jon hails a taxi. They stand close together, and every brush of hands or bump of shoulders sends a little electric rush through Martin. At last a taxi pulls up, and Jon gives him a rueful look. 

“Well, this is me,” he says. “I’ll...text you, about next weekend? Now that I have your number at last.” His tone is fond, teasing, and Martin feels warm with it. 

“Sounds great,” he says, and hesitates, as something occurs to him. “Or, umm…When are you heading back to London?” 

“Oh, uh, tomorrow,” says Jon, pausing with his hand on the door of the cab. “I’m planning to get the train in the morning.” 

“Me too,” says Martin, daring. “Maybe we could...go together?” 

Immediately, he regrets saying it, because is that too much? Too demanding? They’re already going to see each other next weekend for what is—maybe, _probably_ —a date. Jon likely wants some time to himself, after tonight. He opens his mouth to tell Jon to forget it, silly idea, except Jon is already replying:

“Yes, I—I’d really like that.”

“Great. Great! It’s, uh, it’s nice to have some company on a long train journey.”

“As long as it’s the right kind of company,” says Jon, with an odd, tilted smile, and then he’s leaning in and brushing a kiss to Martin’s cheek, quick and soft. He’s still smiling as he opens the taxi door and climbs inside. 

“Night, Martin,” he says. “I’ll text you in the morning?” 

“Night Jon,” says Martin, and stands watching as the car pulls away. He doesn’t quite press a hand to where Jon kissed him, because he has _some_ self-control, but he can’t keep the giddy grin off his face as he turns to head into the hotel. 

Turns out, it was a pretty good reunion after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed and on twitter @cut2th


End file.
